


The Last Walk

by GloriaVictoria



Category: The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
Genre: Ghosts, Kidnapping, M/M, Supernatural - Freeform, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-23
Updated: 2012-05-23
Packaged: 2017-11-05 21:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/411040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaVictoria/pseuds/GloriaVictoria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katrina, intrigued by Ichabod's odd behavior, follows him on his last walk and finds something extraordinary. Mild Hessian/Ichabod</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Walk

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the original Washington Irving story. Originally posted on FF.net.

It was well-known around Sleepy Hollow that Mr. Ichabod Crane was a strange fellow, though courteous and likable enough. A charming gentleman, despite his apparent awkward gait and lanky composition, he could often be seen at night strolling the woods surrounding the little town, whistling sweet songs, his eyes darting about as if searching for something unknown to anyone but himself. Such odd behaviour would naturally catch the eye of any inquisitive passersby, but particularly interested the eminent Van Tassel heiress, Miss Katrina Van Tassel, and it occurred to her one night after a particularly raucous party to wander our in search of her good friend Mr. Crane; any inquiring soul would desire to investigate such an enigmatic character, displaying such curious conduct. Therefore, deflecting the affections of her doting father, she took to the road, following the departing Mr. Crane from a safe distance, examining his actions with an experienced gossip's eye, which was lost to no detail.

His undersized coat flapping behind him, he strolled quite gaily along, though his steps were careful and slow, as if not wishing to attract too much attention. "Really," she thought to herself, "he's not so terrible to look at at all." He wasn't the ugly clodhopper that some described him to be. Though it was true that his hands and feet were quite large, and he was rather tall, his face was gentle, his hair dark as a new moon and his eyes bright and green as globeflowers. His countenance, though strict on the exterior, was very kind beneath, as Katrina had observed from his many visits. It was a pleasure to be near him, and hear his stories of ghosts and spirits-he was so interested in them!-spoken to her in his timid voice. He was a comfort, and a refreshing recess from her most vigorous pursuers, the exuberant Brom Bones.

While she mused, Ichabod approached the forest and paused, looking almost apprehensive-or excited?-at the prospect of entering. Katrina could not help but agree; the sun was fast sinking beneath the steep hills surrounding the hollow, and the woods, normally quite amiable during the waking hours, looked positively menacing in the fading light. The branches seemed to reach out to her, beckoning her to enter, and as Ichabod ventured in, she took a deep breath and followed, knowing that if she did not, her curiosity would not abate. Carefully pulling up her copious skirts, she tiptoed after him, hiding in the growing shadows. As she followed, she dwelled on his odd behavior earlier in the day. It had been a day of fun and excitement, of revelry. Yet he had departed so quickly! Indeed, she felt for certain that Mr. Crane was more suited to the company of towering trees and lonely paths than the company of men.

She was growing quite tired soon after entering the forest; the labor of holding up her frocks and sneaking oh-so-quietly was taking its toll on her plump little frame. Wiping her forehead, she pushed her fair hair out of her eyes, wishing that Ichabod would find what he was searching so diligently for posthaste. The sun was swiftly setting, and Ichabod's form was quickly blurring in the darkness. Katrina had to squint her eyes to make out his form, so much so that she did not notice as her dainty little foot sank into a mud hole. Suppressing a squeal of displeasure, she continued quietly, not wishing to be found eavesdropping; certainly not at this time of night. That aside, she had the strong feeling that she was clost to seeing something extraordinary, and she was going to see it, come Hell or high water.

An ironic phrase for her to employ, for at that moment, she realized where Ichabod was leading her. They had wandered into Wiley's Swamp: "That explains the mud," she thought briefly, again cursing to herself for ruining her shoe. "Really, what a dismal place to take a walk." Chill bumps subsequently rose on her arms and neck, and she was sure that she had come upon something strange, mysterious…supernatural. It was not like Katrina to listen to rumors of ghosts and spirits, but it had been whispered by many a mouth in the Hollow that deep within Wiley's Swamp, the Galloping Hessian dwelled, and she could not help but notice that the marsh was growing ever darker and darker. She shivered and nervously clung to her gown, her hands slick with sweat. Ichabod abruptly stopped at the stream, facing the bridge-if you could call it one; really, it was just a few poorly-hewn logs lashed together-that joined the two partitions of land on each side. Katrina, already exhausted and frightened beyond her with, leaned against a strong pine to catch her breath. She wished dearly that she had minded her own business and not followed Mr. Crane to such a terrible place, wished that her curiosity had not proven so alluring in its nature. It was, after all, so rude to nose into people's business…

At the sound of footsteps, her heart froze; the rest of her soon following. As she listened in petrified silence, she realized that she had identified the sound incorrectly. it was not a man's steps that approached, but a horse's instead. She remembered the stories and could have cried from terror. Ichabod, Katrina observed, was as horror-struck as she, his slim legs practically knocking together and his hands clenched tightly into fists at his sides. She gazed past him and into the murky blackness, searching for the source of the ominous clip-clopping and felt a scream rise in her throat when she found it. Biting her lip viciously she stifled herself, eyes glued to the scene that unfolded in front of her. Doubtless the figure at the head of the bridge was the Horseman: could it be any other? The stories that she had heard of him were all true: he was a truly frightening figure, imposing and regal on his monstrous black steed, like a cruel tyrant amidst the conquered. The stallion's eyes burned with a demonic fire, illuminating the marsh with a hellish glow. The horse itself was frightening enough, but Katrina could not pull her eyes away from its master, the Hessian himself. Sure enough, he was headless; his broad shoulders were empty, his head resting comfortably in his lap. That fool Ichabod! Now was the time to run, to save himself. Nay, still he stood, motionless save for his quivering legs, face-to-face with the Horseman.

She closed her eyes tightly as the ghastly creature began his approach toward Ichabod, knowing for certain that any hope for his survival was now gone. Sense told Katrina to run now, save herself, but again her inquisitive mind, now fueled by terror, overwhelmed her better judgment, and with great apprehension, she opened her eyes, half expecting her teacher friend to be dead already. But no, miraculously he was still alive, and shaking even harder as the devil rode up to him, the horse's muscular flank almost touching his pale face. The head upon his lap gazed down at Ichabod with great interest; the dead eyes, grey as a corpse, shone menacingly. Slowly, the gloved hand of the apparition reached down to him, surely meaning to crush his throat, to pull his lovely head off of his shoulders like a stubborn turnip in a garden. "Closer now," he seemed to beckon, "closer…"

No shriek of agony.

Instead of killing Ichabod, Katrina observed with great disbelief, the Headless Horseman touched-nay, caressed- his face with the back of his hand, as one would touch a dearly beloved. Ichabod made no advance or retreat, only whimpered sofltly, a sound akin to the cooing of a dove, and continued to stare up at the terrible figure above him cautiously. Encouraged, the Horseman thence continued his ministrations, tilting Mr. Crane's head and exposing his pale neck to the night. The head grinned, sharpened teeth gleaming, and Katrina wondered if it wouldn't leap up unbidden and bite into Ichabod's smooth skin. Stroking it gently with a single finger, again the cooing moan echoed in the otherwise silent marsh. By now, Katrina had forgotten her fear. Her heart now pounded not with terror, but with a perverted excitement that flushed her cheeks with blood. She simply could not pull her gaze away!

Ichabod now daringly brought his hand up to the Horseman's, his thin fingers brushing the rich, dark leather of his glove. His lips parted ever-so-slowly, revealing straight white teeth, and his eyes widened in surprise, as if he had simply discovered a new species of flower, and not just touched the most fearsome creature ever known. Despite the many reports of a ghostly figure, Ichabod's audacity had proved that the Hessian was apparently quite solid, and upon that discovery Mr. Crane continued to explore the hand, the wrist, the forearm of the monster before him. Suddenly, with a cruel, toothy smirk from the severed head, the Horseman swept Ichabod off of his feet, a corded arm wrapped tightly around his thin waist. Katrina stifled a scream with her hand and watched as the two rode swiftly away into the night, leaving all of his belongings strewn about the bridge and stream. Overwhelmed by his unexpected disappearance, she threw herself to the ground and sobbed, never minding the mud that further ruined her clothes. When she finally gathered herself, she made her way back to Sleepy Hollow, shivering in the midnight air and burning the night into her memory.

Never did Katrina Van Tassel tell a soul what occurred that night; not when she wed Brom Bones, not while she quilted with the ladies of the town, not even when a young Mr. Irving briefly visited, writing down the strange story of Sleepy Hollow and gathering the accounts of her looser-lipped, less-informed friends. What she did do, however desperate it may have been, was this: every year on that same night, she visited the swamp, searching for any sign of her dear friend or the monster that spirited him away. But there was none to be found, for neither he nor the Horseman were ever heard from again.


End file.
